Who'd Have Thought?
by Hat as a Madder
Summary: "Waving as I walked up the stairs, a random and surely sleep deprivation induced thought came to me. Christmas wasn't my favorite holiday any longer. It was Boxing Day..."


**Author's Note: **I suck at oneshots and first person writing in general but I thought I'd give it a go; it popped into my head and couldn't work it into my other LJ stories. This is Christmas night in the Gryffindor Common Room. Everyone's gone to bed.

* * *

I couldn't help but stare. It was Christmas, after all, so I allowed myself one more glance. There he was, so bleeding gorgeous—I mean so bleeding annoying, of course, sitting nonchalantly in the armchair by the fire.

He was sitting in _my_ armchair by the fire, specifically.

He knew it was my armchair. In fact, he knew everything about me, to be honest, just as I knew everything about him. Scary thought, no?

The stupid Head Boy to my bloody Head Girl was my idiotic best mate. Alice, of course, had graduated last year, along with Frank. Oh, the woes of being younger than your friends. But I digress. I must focus on James.

When did he become James and not Potter, you ask? Well, in the first week; a Wednesday, to be exact. I accidentally dropped my books on his feet—accidentally, damnit!—and he broke a toe. Yes, I have a lot of classes, shut up about it. Anyway, I figured a broken bone combined with a resolution to be civil towards him since it was seventh year merited us being on first name terms.

It all went downhill—or uphill, depending on how you look at it—from there. I started sitting with the Marauders. I started willingly conversing with James. I started enjoying talking to James. I became friends with all of the Marauders. I became best friends with James. I started fancyi—nothing.

Anyhow, he's sitting in my armchair and I'm stuck on the couch. He's talking to me right now, animatedly, about the Quidditch game I was at today. So, while I'm normally enthralled by Quidditch and Jam—Quidditch, I couldn't focus because he was sitting in _my bloody armchair_.

I'd had enough. "I've had enough," I informed him.

"And then Sirius—what?"

"You're in my armchair," I pointed out, gesturing grandly. "And it's Christmas. I think I deserve my armchair on Christmas."

"It's Boxing Day, actually," he said, pointing at the clock. It read 12:01. Well, damn, there's my argument gone. "But you can have it."

He rose unwillingly from the cushy chair with a regretful expression that made me stupidly pity him. "Stay," I commanded.

"What?" he sounded surprised and possibly confused. I shrugged. "Did Lily Evans just relinquish her armchair to James Potter?"

"I didn't say I wasn't going to sit there, I just said you could, too," I explained. Where did that come from? I suppose I hated his mocking tone, as if I was imperious about my armchair. I was not imperious about my armchair!—often.

"So where is my best friend's butt going to go, then? It isn't a very large chair," said James, raising his eyebrows with a good-natured smile.

"Here," I said, plopping down on top of him. Why, you ask? I honestly don't know. Call it impulse. Call it insanity. Either way, a bewildered I was perched on a bewildered James' lap.

"This is… different," he noted, looking at me like I'd gone mad, which, quite possibly, I had.

"I like my chair," I said in explanation, yawning.

"Tired, are we?" he questioned, obviously trying to get a sense of normalcy into our very abnormal position.

"It's your fault," I accused, nodding. "We sit up at night too often."

"You should be used to it, then," he grinned.

"I suppose I am," I agreed, "But I got up early this morning."

"You're complaining that you woke up to presents?" he scoffed.

"No, just that I woke up _early_ to presents," I clarified. "Thanks for yours, by the way." I fingered the tiger lily charm on my bracelet fondly.

"You're welcome," he said. "I love mine, too, you know." He patted his back pocket where I knew the season tickets were.

This patting, however, jostled me until I was no longer resting on his knee. No, of course not; I was now situated on his thigh. I giggled awkwardly and he swallowed. This effectively ended the flow of conversation.

He was looking anywhere but at me. I was doing the same until he sighed, seemingly losing an internal battle, and glanced at me, half-smiling hesitantly. I gave him a soft sort of grin in return.

"Do you realize you're sitting in my lap?" he questioned finally, looking at me queerly.

"Really? Well, damn. I meant to be in Sirius'," I teased.

"But why are you in my lap?" he persisted.

I bit my lip. I didn't know, either. "I wanted to be in my armchair and I felt bad so I let you stay here, too."

"That's not a very good reason, you know," he told me with mock-solemnity.

"Oh? And what is, oh-king-of-reasoning?" I asked jeeringly.

"You could be sitting here because you love me, perhaps," he jested, but I didn't see the joking glint in his eye. They were almost sorrowful.

"Perhaps," I agreed quietly. "I'd be acting much different than this, though."

"How would you act, then?" he chuckled.

"Well, I'd be much closer to you, like this," I demonstrated by leaning into him, pressing myself against his chest and wrapping my arms around his neck.

"Very understandable," he murmured, mostly into my forehead due to the height difference. "Is that all you'd do differently, then?" he teased.

"Of course not," I assured him with a smile. "I'd look into your eyes adoringly, like so." Only to make a point—just to make a point, I tell you!—I gazed up into the hazel eyes I'd grown to love just as much as the rest of the man I was sitting on. I mean like. I'd grown to like, honestly.

I took off his glasses for good measure; they were obscuring my view just a bit. I mean they were obscuring my view in the game we were playing just a bit.

"So you lean into me and stare into my eyes," he said thoughtfully. He seemed to be analyzing my expression. He seemed pleased but rather unsure. I wondered what on earth that was about, but my rambling mind was interrupted by the continuation of his thought. "That doesn't seem very fair."

"You don't like me sitting here, then?" I asked, the sting of rejection washing through me, preposterously painful, but I numbed it slightly with assuring myself I had no reason to care and, besides that, I shouldn't have expected any different. In fact, I should be pleased! Somehow my indifferent smile came out as a grimace.

James laughed. "That's quite an expression, Lils," he noted. I was almost angry at him for joking when I was in so much pain—but only almost. I was more angry at myself for expecting any different. He didn't, after all, know that I was in pain, nor did I know why.

I suppose I might as well be honest with myself. I did know why, however much I tried to deny it. I was in bloody love with James Potter—oh, how I wish I just _fancied _him! It would make life so much easier, standing next to him with just a fluttering heart rather than one that races, constricts, expands, soars, sinks, and belongs to him all at once. Wow, but that's cliché. Cliché but true. Like I said, it sucks.

"Well, if you're going to laugh at me," I said, trying to resume our normal jesting and rise from his lap before I did something stupid and weak like cry. I swung a leg onto the floor, blushing but not quite feeling ashamed at how close we were.

"Where are you going?" he asked, sounding disappointed. No, of course it wasn't disappointment. It was relief; I was just unhealthily deluding myself.

"To bed, since my teasing is 'unfair'" I quoted with what I hoped came across as a carefree grin. I brought my other leg over and began to stand before I realized my fingers were still laced behind his neck. This time I blushed as I quickly removed my arms. I stood and took a step but in one fluid motion James stood and caught my hand.

To continue with my blithe façade, I should probably have giggled and pulled it from his grasp, continuing up the stairs. I was devastatingly incapable of this feat, however. My stupid, stupid self should have known that falling in love with stupid, stupid James was a stupid, stupid thing to do. I sniffed, trying to disguise it as a sneeze. I don't think he was fooled, he knew me too well. That's a real 'shit!' moment right there, when someone you love but don't want to know you love them because they don't love you catches you tearing up and expects you to tell them why, when, in fact, it is their fault you're crying in the first place but you can't tell them that for obvious reasons involving heart breaking and embarrassing confessions. Have I mentioned I tend to ramble when I'm upset?

"I meant that it was unfair that only you got to do anything," he explained impatiently, looking upset at the tear that had escaped as he brushed it away with his thumb, causing me to fight entirely pleasant shivers.

"What?" I asked, his statement catching me off guard and effectively distracting me from pathetically wallowing in self pity.

"Look," he said, picking me up with ease and settling me on his lap where I had been before, although this time I was the one who swallowed. "You lean into me and look at my eyes and I just sit here?"

Recovering my sense of self-preservation enough to joke around with him, I wrapped my arms around his neck once more and gazed up, trying to mask the still-present sorrow I knew was there. "Well, it looks like you're just sitting here," I jested.

"But do you really think I'd just sit here if you confessed your love to me, like you're supposed to be doing?" he asked, a half-smile gracing his lips.

"Well, yes," I answered dumbly. He'd sit there and sigh and shake his head and be much too kind, as always, when he assured me he was sorry he didn't feel the same way.

"Well, no," he disagreed. "I would, of course, have to profess my undying and sometimes excruciating love for you in return. I'd snog you senseless, too—hypothetically, of course."

That was just cruel, even if he didn't know I loved him. "Hypothetically, I might very much enjoy that, if I was in love with you," I informed him, masking the confession by carrying on the stupid teasing.

"Only if?" he questioned, looking to be having as much difficult with the joking nature of the conversation as I was.

"To equal your hypothetical undying love for me," I explained expressionlessly, suddenly and rather randomly aware of my close proximity to him. I couldn't do this anymore, it would kill me. Then again, it would be quite a pleasant way to die.

"These hypotheticals need demonstrations," remarked James, a light in his eye. "You've demonstrated what you would do," he said, turning his head to the side and planting a kiss on my arm, still foolishly around his neck. It was a chaste kiss, friendly even, but it was torture.

"That's true," I concurred, wondering just where he was going with this.

"So I need to demonstrate my own hypothetical," he elaborated, sensing my confusion.

"Oh," I murmured, wondering what he meant. My brain worked furiously for just a moment, recalling the 'snogging senseless' part of our conversation. I raised an eyebrow at him, the emotion behind the action too befuddling for even me, feeling it, to place.

"It's the only way to be fair," James commented, looking hesitant. He brushed a strand of hair behind my ear tentatively. Moving shyly, he put a hand on the back of my head, fingers slowly entangling in my hair. "Oh, to hell with it," he said abruptly, all timidity lost as he brought his lips to mine.

I'm not quite sure how it happened. Surely I had started the whole thing—that was the only way this brilliant waking dream could've possibly taken place. Surely it was only I kissing him with no return of action. Surely it was impossible to feel like you've been empty all of your life until this moment. Surely it wasn't James Potter's raven hair beneath my fingers. Surely it wasn't James' hands in my own fiery locks.

Surely, surely, it was illegal for snogging to be this bloody pleasant. The Aurors would come to arrest me any moment now. I might as well enjoy the moment, savoring it until James realized what he was doing, what I was doing, and what it meant I felt.

But really, how could he not like me, even just a little bit? He wasn't rejecting my tongue as it rebelliously left the control of my mind and sought entrance to his mouth. As his own danced with mine, I considered it possible—not probable, but possible—that he might not have gotten over his fancy of me.

Our eyes opened at the exact same moment, meeting each other's gaze almost shyly. His eyes were full of something I dared not even attempt to identify as I, nervous, released his lips.

"I'm sorry," I muttered, not quite sure why I was apologizing but feeling it necessary all the same. "I'll just go, then." But I made no attempt to disentangle my fingers from his hair, nor did he release his hands just below my shoulder blades that had been pulling me closer.

"Lily," he said, looking confused. "Why?"

"I'm sorry," I repeated again, an unexplained tear sliding down my cheek. Honestly, what was wrong with me? I've always been emotional but this was ridiculous.

"Why are you sorry?" he inquired softly, brushing away a tear for a second time that night. "Do you regret it, Lils?"

Somehow he paralyzed me with the bluntness of that question. There was no question of lying—an honest answer was the only option. "No," I mumbled. "I don't regret it." But you do, I added silently.

"So why are you sorry?"

"I—I," I stuttered, more bloody tears leaking. I wasn't going to break down, not now. I raised my head, wiping away the tears defiantly. "I don't regret it, but I shouldn't have done it, not when you don't feel the same way."

"The same way?" he repeated, obviously confused. "Like you fancy me and I don't fancy you?"

"That's the way it goes, James," I said, a bittersweet smile on my face.

"Well, no, I don't fancy you," he assured me, a brilliant grin lighting up his eyes. "I love you, Lily Evans."

"I under—what?"

"I love you," he repeated simply. "You don't know how long I've wanted to tell you that, honestly. But I didn't want to ruin everything. But if you might possibly fancy me, well, I figured I might as well get it out there in the open."

"I don't fancy you, either, James," I said, my brain not really catching up with what words were coming out of my mouth. "I love you."

He blinked at me, his lips parted slightly. He put on his glasses and scrutinizing my expression. I resisted a giddy giggle. "I love you, James Alexander Potter."

"You love me," he mused, tasting the phrase on his tongue. "_You_ love _me_. You _love_ me. Lily Evans loves _me_."

"Are there many more ways you could phrase that?" I interjected, a radiant smile gracing my swollen lips.

"It's just that—bloody, hell, Lils!" he said, his bruised mouth kissing my nose, my forehead, and each of my eyes while I tried to make my brain process what had just happened. "Finally! Finally, finally, finally! You love me! I love you! Why, we're in love, Lily!"

"Mmm," I agreed, laughing. "We're in love. I never thought I'd see the day."

"I did," James promised me, laughing as well. "I always knew you'd come 'round."

"I'm glad you were right," I murmured into his shoulder, my face still wet but long since forgotten.

"Did you just say I was right?" he joked, obviously as giddy as I was. "First you relinquished the armchair, then you sat on my lap, you bloody snogged me in a deserted common room, you tell me you love me, and then you say that I was right about something?"

"Quite a night for you," I snorted though I was grinning.

"You know what this means?" he asked me with mock-solemnity. He put his hands around my waist and pulled me closer, stroking my hair as I burrowed contentedly into his shoulder. "You're going to Hogsmeade with me."

"You didn't even ask," I teased, smiling despite myself.

"Every time I ask you say no," explained James casually. "I figured if I didn't ask, you couldn't say no."

"I wouldn't say no," I informed him.

"Not even if all of Hogwarts knew we were going out?" he asked. I knew he was thinking of my loathing of the gossip mill, especially the Potter fan club.

"Especially if all of Hogwarts knew," I said. Beaming, he resumed stroking my hair, leaning his head down to rest on mine.

I wasn't sure how long we sat there, dozing off and on, and when I forced myself to glance at the clock it was three in the morning. I woke James and said as much, grinning sheepishly.

"I suppose you want to go to bed," he guessed, but he didn't loosen his grip on me.

"I need, not want," I told him, giving him a peck on the cheek. "Goodnight, James."

Unwillingly he released all of me but my hand and standing with me, he whispered, "Goodnight, Lily," in my ear and walked me to the staircase to the girls' dormitory.

"Feeling chivalrous?" I laughed quietly to not wake the others.

"I don't want to let go," he explained, grinning.

"Kiss goodnight?" I requested. He smirked before obliging me with a sweet, short kiss that immediately rendered all sense of propriety and need to get to the dormitory senseless. I clung to him and he chuckled softly.

"You have to go," he reminded me. Blushing, I nodded.

Waving as I walked up the stairs, a random and surely sleep deprivation induced thought came to me.

Christmas wasn't my favorite holiday any longer. It was Boxing Day—Boxing Day with James Potter.

Who'd have thought?

* * *

**Author's Note: **Well, that was cheesy—and corny, and very cliché, and entirely too fluffy. Oh, well. An author's allowed to write a shoddy guilty pleasure of a oneshot every now and then. (=


End file.
